The Pages Between Us

Chapter 2

Kamari POV:

I spent all week thinking about the publishers. I've reviewed every email I've received from publishers nationwide. My wrist is hurting from all the calculating I've done, seeing which deal works out for me. I don't think I've checked my sale statics this much in years.

I've barely had time to work on the new book, just my basic social media work for the ones already out. I've teased the concept of a new book, and my comments have been blowing up with theories. Some were sequel ideas for previous books, some were better endings to my multiple sad endings. I always liked to read my comments, look at fan postings, and see what everyone else likes. This is my audience, and I want to cater to them.

After being curled up in my room for hours, my mother calls me down for dinner. Lately, I've just been ordering meals or eating the snacks I have on my desk. I know it's not good, but I've been stressing about what deal to go with, because once that contract is signed, I can not leave until my deal is up.

I've even texted a few of my Author friends, asking if they liked the company they work for. Obviously I knew there was a bias towards it, because they write their paychecks. But I was hoping for a little more explanation. It was a hit or miss with that attempt.

But I put all my stuff away, changed into some decent clothes, and descended down the stairs. "Hi mama," I say, giving her a kiss on the cheek. My father was already seated, his beer in hand as he took a few sips. Even though my mother was a practicing Muslim, and an immigrant from Lebanon, my father was a white man. He had met my mother when she first came to America when she was in her late teens, and he fell in love with her ever since.

Neither of my parents forced me into any identity or religion. At a young age, I was adamant on the fact that I wasn't going to practice either religion, which I think they got over quickly, because that same year I revealed to them that I wanted to write books about murder. They thought I was crazy, then they realized that I already have a thing for writing stories and poetry—but a more darker side to both. Most of my poems were about death and the concept of living. I never liked romance books, or horror, but I loved mystery and thrillers. So I wrote that. But with a heavy dose of murder and plot twists.

"How was work, kiddo?" My father asked. For a man with buzzed blonde hair, and crystal blue eyes like the lake, I didn't attain any of those features. My mother on the other hand, her skin was dark in contrast, and same with her hair and eyes. Instead, I took my uncles eye color; green with hints of blue, and my mothers hair; a dark brown that was almost black. My skin was not so pale either, which I hated growing up, but now that I see everyone getting spray tans, I feel a little better about it.

"Work was tiring," I sigh dramatically. My father always said I had a think for the dramatics, he said in another life I could have been a play writer like Shakespeare. My mother says I would have been a movie director or actor. I just smile because no one has given me an option that didn't involve my creativity. Yes, only a very few people knew, because not many people are going to want to read a book written by a thirteen year old about murder. But they do want to read K.F. Jackson's book—my pen name.

K.F. is meant to stand for my first and middle initial. Kamari Fayruz. My mother gave me the name, telling me it was my grandmas and that I should hold great power to the name. So I wore it in my own unique way, as I always have for everything in life.

"Hayati, don't play into her theatrics," my mother groans, as she placed the last dish on the table. Tonight, we were having kubba hamuth, which is almost like a beef dumpling soup.